“An unpleasant business.” His expression hardened, as if personally insulted by the attack. “I am pleased to know that your fiancée has made a full recovery.”
Edmond did not bother to demand how the Runner knew this. It was his business to gather information.
“It was a stroke of fortune that she was not more gravely injured, or even killed.” His voice was edged with the cold fury that pounded just below the surface. Someone was going to pay for hurting Brianna. “I do not intend to allow such a thing to happen again.”
Chesterfield slowly nodded. “Nor do I.”
“You had a man keeping watch on my cousin?”
“Two, in fact,” Chesterfield confessed. “Unfortunately, neither of them was in the garden to catch sight of the assailant.”
Edmond tossed his cheroot into the fire before slamming his hand on the marble mantle. Until that moment, he had not realized how much he was depending on this man to have some information, anything that might help to steer Edmond in the right direction.
“Damn.”
“One of them, however, did catch sight of a carriage racing away from the town house mere moments after the shot was fired. That was why I delayed contacting you. I had hoped to discover more about the carriage and who might have been driving it.”
Edmond sternly dampened his instinctive flare of hope. Since his return to England, he had encountered one delay, detour and disappointment after another.
Why should this be any different?
“And did you?”
“Not near so much as I would like.” Chesterfield reached into the pocket of his plain black jacket to pull out a wrinkled piece of parchment. “Here.”
Edmond frowned at the crude map that had been etched onto the paper. “What is this?”
“Gill attempted to track the carriage through the streets. This is where he last had sight of the vehicle.”
“It looks to be Piccadilly.” Edmond shook his head. “The villain could have been headed anywhere.”
Chesterfield grimaced. “That is why I was delayed in contacting you. I have my man scouring the streets in search of the carriage. He is certain he will recognize it if he sees it again.”
“Hardly likely.”
“Perhaps not.” With a sigh, Chesterfield moved to pour himself another large shot of brandy. “I have also been interviewing Lady Montgomery’s neighbors and their servants. It is always possible that they noticed something, although they might not realize that it is of any importance.”
Edmond folded his arms over his chest. “What is your opinion of the shooting?”
Chesterfield tossed the brandy down his throat in an impatient gulp. Then, turning, he studied Edmond with a somber expression.
“Before I answer, I would like to know what happened between you and your cousin before the shot was fired.”
In a concise manner, Edmond revealed the events leading up to the moment that the shot had been fired.
Chesterfield listened in silence, his scowl deepening. “So it was your notion, not Summerville’s, to go onto the balcony?”
“Yes.”
“And neither you nor your cousin invited Miss Quinn to join you?”
Edmond’s teeth ground together. “Most certainly not.”
“Then it does not seem likely that she was the intended victim.”
“Of course she was not.”
“You sound very certain.” Chesterfield set aside his empty glass.